


Bratja

by ASadAddict (ileranerak)



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Twins, Double Life, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, M/M, Twincest, Vigilantism, Yuri feels, more gen than pairing-oriented
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileranerak/pseuds/ASadAddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his wary, suspicious nature, there was one thing Yuri Petrov was completely sure of: among the millions of hypocrite sinners surrounding him in the decadent megalopolis of SternBild, the only person he could trust, the only one who would never use him, disappoint or betray him as others had proven before was Yuri. He wasn't sure how long had they been living like this, but by now he wouldn't have it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bratja

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt for the T&B kink meme. Thank you, wonderful OP anon!  
> First Multi-chapter, writer not a native English speaker, please comment on how to improve, and on the story overall.
> 
> Original prompt can be found here: http://t-and-b-anon.dreamwidth.org/4163.html?thread=6967875#cmt6967875

Братья | Глава I

He was cold.

Regardless of his warm trench coat and scarf, he was freezing. He surprised himself by lifting up his free hand to his mouth in an attempt to warm it with his breath. By the time he realized what he was doing, the numbness on his fingers had almost disappeared. He fumbled inside his pockets and grabbed his gloves, struggling to put them on while holding the burdensome briefcase and the white plastic bag. The icy air seeped through his dress pants, and a chill went up his spine.

He walked a little faster, his shoes squelching on the murky waters of melted snow.

Despite his wary, distrustful nature, there was one thing Yuri Petrov was absolutely certain of: Among the millions of hypocrites and sinners populating the decadent megalopolis of SternBild, the only person he could trust, the only one who would never use him, disappoint or betray him as others had proven before was Yuri.

He could see it even now, on the face of the salesman across the glass; On the gaze of the vagrant hiding in the shadows of the alleyway, looking at the wealthy by-passers with their robust shopping bags ; On the small child that pulled his mother's arm, to force her to take a look at the single toy on the sideboard of the largest store on the block. The greed, envy and resentment.

Yuri was different.

There were no misunderstandings between them nor were there any secrets, contrary to the forged bonds of petty romantic relationships. They couldn't be considered two people sharing a life, he mused: that felt too much like the corny illusions newlyweds and teenage girls were fond of.

Were he to articulate the feeling and put such abstract concept into words, he would declare that they were the same person split into two: a single soul inhabiting two bodies, as trite as it may sound. He wouldn't call it love, for using such a banal world would forever taint the sentiment.

The walk back from his necessary escapade to the notions store was longer than he remembered. He realized he had been walking aimlessly on the sidewalk for quite some time now, watching with unfocused eyes the colorful window displays, which now exhibited the unsold Christmas merchandise, prices accentuated by thick red numbers, large labels and colorful blinking lights lining the contours of the broad windows.

He wasn't sure how long had they been living like this, but by now he wouldn't have it any other way.  
It hadn't always been as it was now, he remembers. When he was younger, he would resent Yuri for playing with his toys, for getting more attention or being favored by papa.

Their mother had always been careful to dress them differently and gently emphasize which toy or clothes belonged to whom, since the time she had read in a parenting magazine the importance of encouraging a sense of individuality for each twin. It hadn't helped, it seemed, that she had named both of them exactly the same, and treated them the same for the first few years of their lives.

She had tried her best rectify for her mistake. And it had worked, for a while. But one cannot deny his true nature forever.

His sight wandered to the display of a particular shop, his eyes scanning over the offered goods. Though the place was inconspicuous in contrast to the surrounding establishments, with a peek inside he could tell it was clean and well cared for. Utility over pretense . He approached the door and walked in. The air inside was warm and cozy, a delicious aroma permeating the ambiance.

Nowadays, he bought two of everything without even thinking about it. In fourteen years, it had become second nature. One for himself and one for Yura. He wished the store clerk – An old woman with a kind face- a good night, and went on his way towards the Justice Bureau's parking lot.

He ended up buying three dozen Russian tea cakes and two doughnuts.

 

_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_

 

Yurka was late.

He was over two hours late, Yuri mused, taking a brief look at the other side of the room. From his desk, he could see the the offending hands of the clock, rotating relentlessly with each passing second. Dangling the pen on his hand over the paper sheets full of tiny annotations comprised of neat strokes.

His eyes wandered to the wall again, before returning to the screen.

With a firm hand, he added two new names to the list of hopeless sinners. He stopped and double-checked at the sight of the name of the first one. George Peters: an ordinary and uninspired name, for a common criminal. Suspected of murder and drug trafficking. Caught for a hit-and-run accident involving a pedestrian and sent to SternBild's penitentiary system, but allowed to walk free six months later due to good behavior. At least, that was the official version.

To the naked eye, he seemed to be an average thug. However, his instinct sensed something else veiled under the facade of a dull brute. He made a note to inspect the case closely later.

Finally, he closed his laptop and put the ballpoint pen and the pile of notes in their corresponding places. He was not the kind of person to worry needlessly, when he knew Yurka was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

No, he was clearly not worried out of his mind, he decided. He just needed a short break. He felt somewhat stiff and hungry.

After a visit to the restroom and a brief glance at the mirror, he made his way to the kitchen and realized how long he had actually been sitting before the desk. So immersed he had been on his search for new targets that he even forgot it was his turn to cook dinner that night.

He was not that bad of a cook, he liked to believe. He could survive on his own just fine. The problem was that he was not on his own. It was past dinnertime, and mother couldn't take her medication on an empty stomach.

He grimaced as he bent down and took a peek inside the refrigerator. Judging by the meager quantities of provisions, it had also been his turn to buy the groceries this week. But it was too late now to do anything about it, except to order some takeout. Not that he believed any place had delivery service on that particular day.

It would have been alright any other day, except for the inconsequential detail that it was Christmas eve.

Christmas at the Petrov's household had been, year by year a blur of anticipation and careful planning. A rush of colorful lights and lavish garlands hanging from every surface, of comfortable embraces, succulent feasts and elaborately wrapped presents. With time, those pointless celebrations had come to an abrupt end. And with it, it seemed, so had their lives.

Warning himself to cease with that train of thought, Yuri decided to settle for some tea, at the very least. He carefully selected three clean cups and set them on the kitchen table. His body moved by itself, gracefully reaching for the kettle from it usual place on the cupboard, and filling it with water.

The stove was an old-fashioned one, the kind that used gas. Much more reliable than the new models that just produced heat -safe for children-, they advertised. He produced a tiny azure flame, and used it instead of the alternative. In the Petrov household, you could not find any matches anymore, he mused.

He stood a few more seconds, watching the flames emanating from the cooktop burners, and their almost hypnotic dance. Then, as if suddenly emerging from a trance, he marched towards the living room to check on his mother while he waited for the water to boil.

Time had brought change to the neighborhood. Families came and went, buildings underwent renovations, and seasons continued their unending cycle. After seven years, Yuri Petrov had graduated University and commenced his ascent toward success with a very promising career as a prosecutor in SternBild's Justice Bureau, while taking care of his convalescent mother after the unfortunate demise of his father. He seemed to be the paragon of progress.

And yet, on the inside...

Inside, the house seemed to be frozen in time, trapped in the same state it had been more than fifteen years ago. Wasting away slowly but surely, sharing the same fate as his poor unhappy mother. He stopped mid-step at the threshold, not yet crossing the door. She had not noticed his presence from where she lay sitting on the couch -the same place he had left her hours ago-, wheelchair on her right.

The gleam of the TV monitor illuminated her vacant expression. The muffled voices arising from the device appearing to be the only indication of life inside the house aside from the ticking of the clock and his own breathing. She was watching the re-run of a soap opera, an old favorite of hers if he were to trust his memory.

He approached the sitting figure with careful steps, in an attempt to not to startle her. He hesitated for a few seconds in calling her, his hands reaching up automatically to adjust the stray lock of hair which fell over his eye and obstructed his view. It seemed that she caught the movement askance, because she finally reacted to his presence, addressing him with an unexpected affectionate tone on her voice.

“There you are. Yuri, dear. Would you mind turning on the light? It's getting late, and your father is still not home”. Her voice growing strained with worry with each passing word. He should have expected it, her having one of those relatively good days as of lately. Even if it made their life easier, and she became tranquil, it pained him seeing her like that more than the justifiable hate in her eyes whenever she was lucid enough to remember what he had done. He sighed, extending a hand to humor her, and turned the light on.

Taking into account the risks of leaving his mother home alone to run off to the supermarket and buy something quickly, versus the alternative of her not taking the medication, or taking it with no food on her stomach...Stalling for some time until Yurka came back from work was the most sensible option, he decided.

“I wonder if something is wrong, he hasn't called home to say he'd be late...”. She complained, trying to to reach out for the telephone on the side-table, apparently to call her long dead husband. Yuri immediately stopped her, taking the phone from her, and holding her hand on his own a bit longer than necessary. He explained with a carefully practiced voice:

“No need to bother with that, mother. I'll call him and ask him myself. Keep watching your show”. This approach seemed to work, because she smiled at him and nodded, turning her attention back to the television. Explaining some stranger why his mother continually called their number was not something he was willing to do again.

He seized the chance to call Yurka and inquire about his delay. And maybe ask him to buy something for dinner. The phone rang. Once. Two times. By the time it rang a fourth time, Yuri knew it was hopeless. He started pacing the kitchen floor.

No, he was not concerned. Yurka could be speeding on the highway on his way home at that very moment, and the phone would only serve to distract him, thus he could not answer inside the car. Or maybe he could have listened for once to the yearly invitations of the cajoling co-workers and underlings, and attended the office's Christmas celebration. Leaving him alone to tend to mother on Christmas eve.

No, Yurka was not that kind of person. Besides, he had promised. Yurka never made a promise he did not intend to keep...

He was brought back from his thoughts by Origa's voice, coming from the other side of the house: “Yuri? What did papa say, is he going to be home soon?”. She even managed to sound slightly hopeful of something which would never happen.

He stopped his pacing, walking back to the living room to explain her the contents of the nonexistent call he had sustained with his father though the phone.

“No, mama. He said that they need him to stay over for a little while. There seems to be an...ah, unavoidable meeting with the sponsors.” He lied, mustering the most sincere smile he could manage, which turned out as a grimace. She took it as a disheartened expression.

“Don't worry, dear. I'm sure he would have liked to be here, but...” She recited, as she usually would do on those days his father couldn't come to a special family occasion due to hero work, which was not that uncommon. “But we must not be greedy, this city needs him as much as we do.”

He curved his lips upward in what his mother still considered a smile, and added “Yes, I guess you are right”.

“See? I knew you understood, dear. You are always so mature for your age. You know your father appreciates it. But know that even if he can't be here on special dates, he doesn't love us any less”

It was by this point that he realized that he recognized such words, the feeling of Déjà vu registering somewhere in his mind. He had this conversation with his mother before, a few years before the incident. Back then, his father would stay out late – probably drinking or with friends -, or never arrive at promised occasions such as his birthday parties, or Christmas eve.

They would feign it didn't matter, so they didn't make Origa worry more than she already was. So they would not be one more burden for her to bear. In the end, it was all for naught, as they were the ones that had eventually traumatized her to such degree that her legs gave up.

He noticed the uncomfortable silence that crept up between them only because of the sound of the kettle, announcing that he now had enough boiled water for tea, and an excuse to keep up acting his part of a good son.

“That should be the Kettle. Would you care for some Tea, mother?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you, Yuri”

“Let us go to the kitchen. Come, I'll give you a hand”

~~~~~~~~

 

He managed to sit her in the comfortable upholstered chair they had especially acquired for her at the kitchen table. She had maintained her good spirits through the trip from the living room to the kitchen, without even questioning the wheelchair, which was unusual for her.

Once there, she kept chatting pleasantly about past school projects, long forgotten family, friends and other trivial subjects. It had been long since the last time he had actually sat down, and enjoyed her company, rather than the usual prospect of avoiding her or pretending her words had no effect on him.

He felt at ease, just sitting there for a moment. But tea disappeared quickly from the two cups, leaving the third one untouched on its side of the table.

This renewed his worry for Yurka, and suddenly he could not remain seated for much longer. He stood up, and repeated his ritual to reheat the water for more tea. Even though the two of them combined could not possibly drink that much, and it was pretty much a useless task, he prepared twice as much. He took extreme care of blocking the view from her, so she could not get a glimpse of him turning the burners on.

Checking the clock again, he noted that not that much time had passed since he had finished his work and left the study. He was growing anxious and could not go back to his seat. So he tried to occupy himself with something, anything.

He turned on the heating system. With the advent of his NEXT powers, he rarely ever felt cold anymore. However, he sometimes forgot how this was not the case for Yurka and mother. This became uncomfortable once winter arrived, since everyone was expected to wear several layers of clothing, coats, scarves...

One less thing to worry about. His mother getting a cold was not something he looked forward to. There was still the issue of the pills. She needed more than just tea.

What did they have left in the pantry? Maybe he could find something. He opened every cabinet door, even the ones that required crouching down, but found nothing relevant to their current need. Everything required cooking, and to complete any dish he would need more ingredients that were currently unavailable. Preserves, spices, unopened cans of vegetables.

She had been very quiet, not acknowledging him on his quest for food or the change in temperature.

Open. Noise to fill the silence.

Jelly, soy sauce, sugar cubes and jars of honey.

Close, and open again.

He rummaged through the bottom drawer. Rice and lentils. The leftover ends of a package of toast. Nothing useful.

Rising on his feet, he discovered a can of peanut butter on one of the shelves, at the level of his eyes. Nasty stuff that never seemed to decompose no matter how long it stayed forgotten. Who knew what kind of chemicals were stored inside?.

He vaguely remembered her packing sandwiches with some of it and a thick coat of strawberry jam for lunch break. He was never fond of them, only the sweetness of the jelly and never having the heart to tell her and Yurka (who seemed to love them) he didn't actually like the flavor made him eat them every single time. He figured she must still like them.

~~~~~~

Outside, the quarter moon shone over the neighborhood, a chilly wind carrying the rain, which formed lines visible only by the light of the streetlamps. Rain, wind, cold, but no snow. It seemed like an endless winter had taken residence on the city. But even though the joyful melodies and lights of the holiday season crowded the streets everywhere, inside it was always winter but never Christmas again.

Yurka struggled to balance everything he had bought on his arms, attempting to open the front door of the house. Yura had even forgotten to turn on the outdoor lights, which hindered his normal entry routine. Sighing, he managed to lock the door and place the keys on their usual place. He left the briefcase over the little table on the hallway. He had anticipated Yura to forget to cook dinner or buy the groceries, so he stopped by a fast food drive through to buy dinner.

He was in the process of taking off his gloves when he heard a thunderous crashing sound, followed by muffled voices and numerous smaller ones originating from the general direction of the kitchen. He hurried over, bags still in his arms.

He was not expecting the scene which greeted him on the other side of the door. He stopped short on the threshold, and his grasp on the bags loosened, making the bucket and brown paper bag plummet to the floor, adding to the mess. But he was too occupied with the two figures on the other end of the room to notice or do anything about it.

The round kitchen table was overturned, the tea set was nothing more than shards scattered all over the cold tile floor, the crumpled tablecloth covered in tea stains. The kettle was on the floor, hot water forming a puddle which was spreading evenly through the spaces between the floor tiles.

Origa lay on the floor, clinging to the back of the fallen wheelchair. Her horror struck face looking up to an enraged Yura, whose own face was shrouded by wet hair and an open palm, leaving only his eyes visible. The scene -which appeared to be frozen in time-, came back to life with the sound of Yurka's approaching feet.

“Just what is going on here?” The question was directed at Yura, however it was Origa who answered.

“It is that devil again! He was going to attack me, I saw the blue on his face! I saw it! Make it go away!” She tried to move up, only managing to entangle her legs even more with the tablecloth.

She crawled towards him, her shaking hand attempting to reach out to him. He managed to glimpse at Yura looking his way and shaking his head, before he turned his back on them.

“Watch out, you'll only hurt yourself. Let me help you” As he approached her to help her up, he felt Yura behind him, sneaking out of the kitchen without a sound. He didn't need to turn his head or get a look at him for confirmation on what he needed do. 

“Now, why don't you tell me what happened, mother?”

“The man, Yuri! The blue monster~! He was going to hurt me, but I managed throw the teapot him” She recounted frantically, as if speaking of an heroic feat that had saved many lives “We have to call your father, Yuri! What if he comes back? We can't possibl-”

“What man are you talking about, mother?” He asked patiently, showing with his hands the empty room. Even if he wanted nothing more than running after Yura, it was his duty to calm her as much as he could, and tending to her above everything else.

“There was no one here, and you need to eat something, take your medication and then go to bed” He suggested, using his best 'worried son' voice. This seemed to plant the doubt in her mind, her expression of honest confusion.

“But- but I was so sure...”

“It was a fortune you didn't injure yourself when you tripped, but please be more careful, mother”

She accepted his arm, and after that first hurdle everything turned out relatively well. Once he had managed to put everything on its place, sweep the shards of ceramic out of the way and pick up the bags he had left on the floor, he turned to her and offered the now slightly crushed food.

She ate in silence, asking about his day in school and inquiring about his father now and then. He expertly deviated the conversation away from potentially dangerous topics. 

After making sure she was indeed not injured by the fall and the whole episode was forgotten, he gave her the prescription pills and helped her getting into her pajamas. He left her seemingly calm, reading a book in her room.

As soon as he had closed the door, he rushed to find Yura.

He walked around the house, finding his way through the darkness. The keys were still in their place, next to the front door, so he knew he couldn't have gone outside. He walked up the stairs and wandered through the second floor, looking for him first in their room, then in the study, and the bathroom, but with no luck. There was only one place left where he could be.

Finally, he returned to the ground floor and made his way to the cellar. He could see the light escaping under the door. By now, he must have heard his footsteps. But to give him some space and a warning before he stepped in, he knocked gently at the door and then proceeded.

He found him sitting on the leather chair, crestfallen with his back to the door. It seemed that he had changed his clothes, and his hair was now tied in a low ponytail. He didn’t seem to acknowledge his presence, but knowing him, he would be the first to speak. He just needed to wait long enough, and he was right, because a few seconds later, he heard his voice whisper.

“Has she calmed down?” 

“Yes, I left her in her room, reading” He answered simply. “I saw the kettle on the floor, she said she threw the teapot at you. Did she…?” He asked without preamble.

“Fortuitously, I had not yet refilled the teapot. The water was not hot enough to seriously injure me.” He seemed to be justifying himself -hiding something still- judging from his behavior.

“Let me see”

“I’d rather not have you see me like this.” This also seemed uncharacteristic for Yura, but at least he was being sincere this time.

“...Turn around”

“I am sorry. I know I have no right to…”

“Yes, you have no right. Let. Me. See.”

“...Alright” He finally conceded and turned around, his face looking down. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet Yurka’s eyes.

His face looked slightly red and swollen, but he had not acquired any serious burns. Immunity to his own blue fire, apparently gave him no protection against boiling water, nor regular fire, as they had discovered rather quickly when he first got his NEXT powers.

What was more disconcerting than everything else that had happened that afternoon was, however, the shape of the swelling, mirroring his own. Yurka's hand unconsciously went up to touch his own, where the makeup concealed a much worse injury. He knew very well the kind of pain it implied.

‘It is not not a burn, I made sure, it's just a little irritated. I can still go to work tomorrow.’ He was clearly trying to brush off the whole accident. 

‘I will not have you putting makeup over that. It will do more harm than good, and I can easily take all your turns at work until it heals.’ Yurka decreed, leaving no doubt in Yura’s mind that there would be consequences if he did not comply. ‘Now come, you must be hungry, I brought doughnuts.’ 

‘You shouldn’t have bothe…” He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the look Yurka was sending him, and ended saying lamely. “ I.. Thank you.’

‘Let’s go, I was waiting for you, so I only made sure she ate before coming here.’ And he took off, leading the way to the kitchen, knowing without a doubt that Yura would follow.

~~~~~~~~

He glanced at the half-squashed bucket of chicken, with the colorful cartoon logo of McStuffy Fried Chicken which was on the top of the table. Yurka wasted no time on taking a plate for himself and taking a seat. On his dish, there was a peanut butter jelly sandwich made with both ends of a loaf of bread.

If Yura was surprised by his choice for dinner, he made no comment. They ate in pleasant silence, occasionally throwing a meaningful glance at the other. Right then, in that moment, nothing else mattered.

And Yura felt warm.

**Author's Note:**

> The main inspiration for the whole idea (beside the prompt) was FMA's song Bratja (Russian for Brotherhood), hence the title.  
> *not accidentally, George Peters is the English equivalent name for Yuri Petrov.  
> Writing this takes me more than I anticipated. Sorry, but I ask for lots of patience.
> 
> Also, migrating from Kink meme to here.


End file.
